Sunday, July 02, 2006

cockroaches to slumber: the journey of a blog post

You should know that by the next few minutes, you are going to dissect my brain. Take care not to touch the nerves. They’re ultra-sensitive.

After wrestling with a million possible topics for a blog post, I am finally convinced that writers, in their most desperate times often resort to the most ridiculous ideas just for the heck of writing something.

Last night, annoyed at seeing another cockroach delightfully skittering at the bottom of the television rack, I scampered for the nearest pesticide and sprayed an amount too generous to the filthy being. And as it dashed for refuge, I went down on my knees, stuck my right cheek on the dusty ground, and squinted my left eye to follow its whereabouts. Lo and behold! It somehow squeezed itself among the piles of boxes. I groaned in frustration. It was not the first time that a cockroach escaped my sadistic intentions of either drowning it or squishing it to death. Anyway, as I was in the midst of another topic-hunting session, the proverbial light bulb lit up and I had one of those “aha” moments…

Cockroach. Spread the culture of hatred for this insect. Why cockroaches shouldn’t be trusted; how it has pestered me since childhood; encounters with cockroaches in the bathroom scaring me off every time I take a bath, in the bedroom running gleefully on my bed sheets and pillows (eeew!), and even in my sleep!…

As my thoughts ramble on, my Smart phone beeped. Conscious, but still wrapped up in thoughts of my prospect topic, I ignored it. My Globe phone beeped. And beeped. Beeped again. I gave in and rolled my eyes over the curse of unlimited texting promos. “Noreen?” I talked to myself as I opened the inbox. And as sure as the sun rises, it is her. Noreen, my classmate, has been flooding my inbox with forwarded messages for the past 12 hours. Even in my dreams, I can hear my phone beeping. And when I wake up, the phone screen would register: 7 messages received. I read each message and deleted the ones that I already received four or five times. After the disruption, I went back to my contemplation. But then, both phones beeped at the same time. Damn phones! I glared at my phones, fighting the urge to hurl them away from me and out the window. To cool my mind that was already brewing anti-unlimited texting propaganda, I took a trip to the mini-kitchen of our mini-house to douse my parching throat and to refresh my thoughts. But alas, my mind was taken by the arrogance of technology, bidding goodbye the nostalgic goose bumps of writing about cockroaches. At times, it takes an initial attack of strong emotions to trigger the brain to veer away from the current discourse, no matter how far you’ve gone through.

Unlimited texting promo. To make people think twice before flooding other people’s inboxes with crap. Why the promo encourages impersonal communication – imagine sending the same message to every one in your inbox?; How I used to be one of those “flooders” but got “converted” because when others did the same, I realized it’s not funny – it’s irksome; Strategies to combat the promo: not too effective though – switching the damn phones off…

As I looked around the room to gather more thoughts, my eyes chanced upon the clock that read 7:30. CSI! My mind raced with my hand as I flicked the remote control. Irritation slowly dissipated with every second of gore and investigation. Not that I love bloody and disgusting stuff. I just feel that I’m being analytical when I watch it, trying to figure out the killer behind evidences. I forgot the phones because the action-packed episode featured explosives and fire. As I gorged on the violent clashes, my eyelids slowly dropped to a half-mast until darkness and dreamland cradled me in their arms.

The next day, I woke with a start to find the clock greeting me a happy 6:15 morning. Yikes! Classes start in 45 minutes! I yanked the blankets away, stood up, and came face to face with yesterday’s paper bearing a scandalous article over a UP professor – our professor. I then remembered a friend who had been texting me that week that he wanted his teacher fired because he was practically teaching nothing. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I have the heart for teachers, because aside from the nobility of the profession, my parents who were my first teachers, are also teachers in a private school.

As I hurried on with school preparations, the light bulb blinked once. Twice. Thrice. Many times, signaling the end of the long session that took a cockroach, two phones, and a slumber before the loose bolts in my brain finally and decidedly reached a verdict.

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